


Masks We Wear, Lies We Share

by Feather_Dancer



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Author created a teacher OC and immediately got attached, Changelings make great frienemies, Gen, If a tad backstabby, Implied Self-Harm, dubious coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21349888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feather_Dancer/pseuds/Feather_Dancer
Summary: Before the world was promptly turned upside down by the concept of a human Trollhunter, the head of the Janus Order went about his business in teaching, keeping Bular from exposing their plans (Or themselves, for that matter) with the patience of an old hand and battling the politics of Changelings where a tongue is just as deadly as the blade. You know it will be that sort of week when somehow a Goblin gets into your private office and makes a nest out of the paperwork.Tags updating as required.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. The two faces of Walter Strickler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masks needing to be juggled for appearance sake must be done so with great care, a slip at the wrong time could court the wrong kinds of attention. Good thing Walter Strickler has had an awful lot of practice.
> 
> [/edit] As of 24/06/2020 this chapter has been edited to bring it up to current writing standards as it had "I've not written anything in like three years and it shows" vibes. No new content has been added, just a lot of better wording and fixes. Formatting has also been adjusted slightly to match Ghost!AU's scene changes.

_Thwack_

There is a code of three of which all changelings live and abide by in their work. They are to be recited, repeated and **be** the constant mantra throughout their meagre existence, to act as guide on how to deal with any obstacles that may stumble into their path while pressing ever onward in the name of both the Order and the Skullcrusher's will.

_Thwack_

The first! There is honour amongst assassins.

_Thwack_

The second! Rule one is a lie, there is no such thing as honour.

_Thwack_

And finally the most important one of all: Everything and everyone is a tool to get what you want.

The world is out there ready and waiting to be claimed by those who are ambitious enough to grasp it within their own hands. Nobody who _truly_ knows what lies beneath the mask of a humble high school history teacher, the very one whom goes by the name of Walter Strickler in the present, would think of him as anything other than someone with eyes set far higher than many of his brethren could dare dream as possible.

"Or so quoths the word of Janus," comes a murmur.

In the present however those very same green are glowering at knives firmly embedded in the dart board upon the furthest wall of the office for their sheer audacity at not _quite_ hitting that perfect mark thrown from where he leans back ever so casually into his chair. There is one more blade that idly sits between the fingers of his left hand, easy enough to be palmed or used to strike the unsuspecting should the next moment that comes call for one or the other. Truly, this a stark contrast to the remaining essays stacked nearly beside him still awaiting his review that he has been diligently putting off these past few minutes.

"Ah I suppose the never-ending march of rather... questionably written assignments would cause trouble to _anyone's_ wrist after so many hours," he grouses, pushing away from his desk to give himself the space to stand. The remaining knife is temporarily pocketed inside his blazer.

"Honestly, lucky enough to hear of one of the greatest spy networks supposed royalty has ever offered over the centuries and _you_ degrade their legacy with some ludicrous dalliance with alien technology over their very own merit. Such a waste of ink and blather, Miss Birchall. I expect far better from my classroom."

Within a few strides he is at the board to retrieve his collection and letting out another tsk upon closer inspection of the target before starting to pluck out each blade. The so-called "errors" would be marginal at their worst to a _mere_ layman you could suppose, but to a perfectionist? Even millimetres become a great annoyance, excuses would not be sufficient on the field of battle after all though at the very least disappointment in such... passive surroundings can only lead to improvements for where it actually counts you could suppose. It is always best to ensure both the mind and hand sharp enough to wield properly for whatever could be needed for in the future.

To bring about an end to his musings, the weaponry is temporarily placed with their solitary brethren to be safely out of the way before the distinctive click of the cabinet being closed. Next, a painted wooden mask that could strike as something a touch Japanese in flavour, if a little too vague to completely validate the heritage, is scooped up from where it had been left propped against the wall then is placed very carefully over the board to obscure it from immediate view. Humming once more in thought, he studies the face as if not _quite_ convinced it is just so then quickly adjusts it to be straighter and thus gives off a far more satisfying appearance in his eyes. Perfect.

As of yet no staff nor the many rotations of students throughout the years (Or is it in the decades at this point?) have ever managed to cotton on to the fact that yes indeed he _does_ have "dangerous weapons" squirreled about this little private sanctuary that he's secured for himself despite the number of them coming and going be they seeking help or to be a general annoyance. Naturally there is already a fiction ready to be spun should such things ever be discovered just in case it's ever required:

Oh, but these were but a gift from a close friend! They accommodate a minor vice of his to try his luck on a target and with lacking _proper_ darts to use thing there is a bit of a temptation to use what he has available instead whenever needing a breather from the stresses of the employ. _Of course_ they are kept locked away, doubly so he will hasten to add, so no small hands would find them and are used only when no student would walk in during the far later hours (Right now not withstanding) to spare the scandal. Hell, he would even refrain from making remarks about other members of the faculty hiding gin for their own weariest of moments like an upstanding member of society should! That said, the tutors who do really should at least put more effort into making them less obvious to the careful eye, he barely needed more than a minute or two to notice the latest hiding spot in the staff room. The more you try to hide something the more it stands out after all.

The truth of the blades is that he has idle fingers that feel far more comfortable with something held between them that is not mere air. _That_, and the ever more important requirement for self defence could come at any time being in the position that he is, but that is unlikely to swing well with the board somehow. They get so much more funny about such things than they used to do and it is all the more a pity.

"An ode we say for those fallen days, how we miss your best and yet still hiss and snarl about your worst," the changeling muses aloud, rolling his left shoulder to lessen the incessant creaking before setting about his next task of the afternoon.

Into the largest drawer of his desk he goes and with only the greatest of care he reaches for a small compartment hidden away at the back, from these depths he recovers what _appears_ to be a rather plain looking mahogany box. Drawing it out he catches one of the flaps of the rather large and battered cardboard box he keeps entirely as extra dissuasion insurance, one that somewhat conspicuously contains a notched iron dagger sitting ever so humble next to a spare long-arm stapler, though he spares neither any mind. At least in comparison there's a modicum of effort gone into hiding some of the old war trophies and artefacts in additional to the sacred art of using locks.

Ensuring to a well-trained ear is kept to the door so to speak, the small metal latch is opened with the utmost care whilst muttering a few words under his breath in reverence and grace as fingertips trace over long worn symbols etched around the edges. All gifts are precious after all, even the ones that were stolen in ages long since past. The internals only look marginally more interesting than the outer to the common eye, worn fabric pocketed by frequent wear that must have once been far more than a rusted red, split into rigid slots perfectly sized for a very specific set of throwing knives to be laid. Pausing, he spares a glance to the door to listen suspiciously with a frown for a beat, then a second and now that he appears contented enough with the continued silence from the hallway, work begins to place each blade with a delicate touch into the confines until all are accounted for and secure.

Unwilling to risk any unexpected intrusions the lid is quickly closed again and they are all once more banished from the light of day, well away from the reach of unworthy hands or spying eyes that may dare tread curiously nearby.

~~~

The desk has returned to looking more like something of _human_ normalcy when a knock comes ten minutes later. Scribbled lines have since appeared with accompanying commentary marked in red ink having made more of a dent in the trite writings he has been forced to endure in the meanwhile though it's telling that some particulars have been poured over longer than others for their content, be that for good or ill would be up to the author to find out. Cocking his head to one side he answers with a quick, come in! whilst idly twirling the pen between his fingers in amused curiousity, awaiting his apparent guest's entrance as though he didn't already suspect who it may be.

If asked to describe the person whom slips inside before quickly closes the door behind it would be as the portly sort; a miscoloured St. Nick perhaps? With the barely contained beard in fading red bushed and wild, matching curled hair coming down to his shoulders and a kindly face that you would immediately deduce is friendly and a heart worn proudly on their sleeve. The comparison however is promptly ruined by the brown leather jacket a well-worn band shirt, chopped jeans and rounded off by slightly scorched lab coat tossed over his shoulder very much like an afterthought. Hardly the most... _tutor_ ... looking attire, you would think but it is what it is and his shift for the day is likely done and dusted.

"Not interrupting am I? I know you seem to enjoy suffering far longer into the wee hours than I, Mr. Strickler," a soft voice asks while keeping a hand braced on the doorknob in case he will be asked to leave again. Only when given a polite wave of greeting does he begins to wander over with a broad smile erupting on his face.

"Hardly! A reprieve can never be overstated quite enough, Xavier. And as I keep telling you, you _are_ allowed to use my first name. We've been colleagues more than long enough for it to be fair."

"No rest for the wicked, aye? Not seen a peep of you in hours and your mug hadn't left the counter which is never a good sign. I was starting to worry you might have barricaded yourself in with all those papers and books of yours again!" He talks in a jovial tone followed by a dismissive tut at the piano stool being far too high for his liking. Taking a moment to adjust it he then sits down while ever mindful of the coat trying to escape his arm and slither it's way to the floor.

"And please, sir, intellectual equals deserve to be treated as such."

"Oh no, nothing as dramatic as that just yet though my classroom does appear to be trying to drive me to drink again. I suppose we should be thankful caffeine is the best that we are allowed so we cannot find how successful they're managing?" Walter replies with the most exasperated expression he can manage and hold before chuckling. The pen he was holding is set down and it rolls to a gentle stop on the remaining essays.

"You do seem to rank us _mere_ amateur historians far better than the student body ever seem to do."

"Now that we can fix I believe, my dear sir! I'll get the old wine experiment up n' running again in chemistry and see about splitting the salvageable share with the staff or perhaps even just for ourselves...? And should he of scarce being cotton on, perish that particular thought, he can threaten me with firing though alas for him I appear too close to retiring to be worth it. The perfect scheme to send me off with, I do suppose?"

His guest's face only lasts as a picture of utter innocence a handful of seconds before it descends into riotous giggles and quite despite himself the changeling cannot help but bark a laugh in turn. He always did like the man and this is just one example as to why.

"Oh that is so _very_ dreadful, truly. So what was it that you needed?"

It takes a moment or two before the remaining giggles are stifled and hands are clasped together in deep thought or prayer, it is difficult to ascertain. It earns a quirked brow at such a shared habit between them both though he is gracious enough to wait until he is ready to speak.

"By irony it would seem, I happened to come by to ask if you were at all interested in a few drinks? The hour of students is waning and the week still feels far too long for a parched throat."

Letting out a sympathetic if apologetic sound, Walter places fingertips upon the diary to his left to further emphasis what he is about to say.

"Ah for that you will have to forgive me for I must decline for a dear friend of mine is in the area. I have not seen them for quite a while and _did_ promise to have a catch up before work snares them away again. Another time then, perhaps?"

His fellow teacher spares a glance to the diary for a moment while processing the words then breaks into another wide grin and a, ah!

"Of course! Those who escape into the wilds of the beyond come first and foremost over the more local. I'll make sure to leave you that book I mentioned for your return as well, bit on the dry side I am not ashamed to admit but one I think you might at least enjoy some fresh banter over," Xavier says, patting the desk with firm hands whilst he stands.

"Send a greetings to your friend for me as well, if you please!"

"I will. Do enjoy your evening, Xavier."

When it comes to their so-called "work placements", the Order's instructions on how to proceed are particularly concise because while it is of course important to embed yourself within the new environment of each post as to not appear ill fitting, fraternisation with the locals is a very risky business and should be avoided wherever possible. Humans, while often terminally oblivious creatures, have alarming moments of clarity about the most inane off-hand remarks and the more persistent of them can create quite the occupational hazard for those involved. Worse still, if such things are allowed to snowball too far, headaches for those higher up the totem pole such as himself tend to happen when the status quo must be forcibly reset. This is particularly when say a, ah, "disappearance" becomes required. They are just too much a liability to one's self in the grander scheme of things to be worth it.

But as is the way of most things in the strange world of humanity, intentions do not always quite pan out as clearly as they were planned for. Stricklander being in the position he so is does his best to get along with his fellows though it stops beyond anything cordial or the occasional feigned interest if things seem fraught or out of place, offering comfort, suggestion even enthusiasm as the situation requires with long learned empathy or at least the pretence of it. The students he treats similarly though that line can be a little more blurred at times than he cares to admit on occasion, particularly for those with more trying backgrounds.

_A secret he will keep for the grave quite frankly_

In regards to the human known as Xavier Mendias however, this was an accidental kinship borne out of a discussion on early Roman society when they both happened to share a break period at the same time leading them to somehow started to bond over the still brewing coffee pot and his then current reading held in his hands. Since then it has blossomed into frequent historical or philosophical debates interspersed with wit and clever trivia that are quite a contrast to the sciences the man teaches during his working hours. It was rather strange and never should have worked really.

And yet somehow it_ did_.

The changeling is still very careful of course, finding ways to politely decline out of any engagements for both with legitimate reasons and not for as it is still important that the man is kept at arm's length in general and lessen any risk of accidental digging into the meticulously devised personal back story he has constructed to inform his actions and words here. Even despite this, he finds the company quite enjoyable for a human, the lack of threat by word or blade he would expect from his fellows is also rather satisfying in its distinct absence. Truly it will be a shame when he does finally retires and the contact will be cut fully but at least there is some time left still. Miss Janeth often grates on his nerves with her constant theatrics and questionable quotation choices whenever she manages to cobble him during peace. Heaven help him when she has even more opportunity to do it if he cannot quite move her onto more enjoyable subjects.

Alas for him upon this day, while the ever so lovely thought of wine regularly topped by the bottle would be far more preferable over where he is really must be going he has no choice about it. Absently he wonders how long until the regret of "doing the right thing" in the name of the Order will start to set in.

~~~

Walter ensures he gets to the little Roduck's Cafe earlier than is particularly needed, driving across town then walking the remainder of the way while carrying briefcase in hand looking the picture of someone heading to or from a meeting. It is a quaint little establishment to be said this, what with choosing to leave customers to the mercy of the great outdoors due to the tiny inside floor space barely holding more than the counter selection thanks to particularly bad planning on the part of owner's past. With the leaky parasols, those utterly awful metal chairs and the clattering of cutlery mingling with the pointless chatter that while rends positively _dull_ to his ears it gives that perfect blanket of being another anonymous being amongst the crowd of fools. As long as one is mindful of eavesdroppers (Usually the older, solitary or bored humans) and ensures to pick out a more sheltered spot, it is ideal cover for those conversations that need little more than an ounce of discretion with the bonus of fresh air.

The place is also quite the stark contrast it is to the cosier spaces of his preferred locale where there is leather sofas, the gentle waft of caffeine, decent books and heating for your enjoyable leisure, but better neutral ground and where you are not regarded as a regular and observed. Routines are far too easy to notice and track.

He quietly slips inside to make the most of the lack of queue traffic, places an order for tea for two and adds a special request regarding when specifically to bring it out to ensure it won't have chance to chill. The blend choice is a favourite of his, hopefully _their_ taste is still in the grounds of reasonable since they last met quite a few months ago. If they care to complain mind he'll happily inform they can spend their own money instead of wasting his further as quite frankly he's already done his part in the little game of civility.

Once back outside again, he notices that there are a few customers scattered about which comes as a bit of a surprise given the time though thankfully not enough of them that a favourable two-person table is particularly difficult to pick out from the pack. Immediately after sitting he begins to covertly check his surroundings for any potential issues in habit more than anything other under the innocent pretence of checking the time. Currently it appears to be a mixture with mostly the single with a few gossipers who wave their hands around excitedly and talk in hushed whispers between themselves, playing at subtlety in how you would expect a child to try and pretend to be devious. One person in particular makes him frown mind for having a _truly_ ludicrous orange hair colour and appearing of an age you would think would be beyond such things. It is still quite a thing to wrap his head around in this current era to be frank, this wearing colours you would expect on troll skin or gemstone not... hair. At least the well stacked scone they are absently picking at is more normal by comparison but still. Orange? Really?

Shaking his head deter _that_ particular train of thought spiralling too far into an odd direction, he allows one more secretive glance to see if his compatriot might be early for a change to find, as expected, only disappointment. They have never been particularly known for their punctuality unless it was deemed of enough import but wishful thinking is what it is. With a mutter that could be on the darker side he goes about removing the diary and a fresh notepad from his briefcase before retrieving the precious key pen from his inside pocket with a flourish between his fingers. If he _has_ to wait at least he can be doing something useful such as transcribing a few minor notes into their corresponding dates that he has fallen behind on with all the grading that has taken up the afternoon. Should anyone nosy enough to look, they would notice that the language used varies at random with little pause between the words, that and any time for self this week seems to be rapidly drowning under the regular employ and that of, ahem, ulterior commitments.

"No rest for the wicked as usual clearly," he says quietly while twirling the pen again in his fingers, an absent motion from how little attention is paid to it before while continuing to study the entries.

"And here _I_ was hoping for a bit more peace before the next exam panic for the students started setting in again, barely feels five minutes since the last one. Time always seems to fly so fast and yet so glacial when it actually matters. Ugh."

No doubt rather deliberately waiting for a lapse what he is doing, the lady of the (Late) hour finally decides to put an appearance knowing what she's like. Her expression when he first catches it as one of utmost grudging and stalking ever closer to the cafe, with a fingertip or two tapping against the handbag slung over her shoulder, before it melts into a look something more palatable for the common man with a small wave to Walter in greeting. He gives her nothing in return annoying her further.

"I'm _so_ sorry, I got a little held up at work!" Nomura sighs all faux apology and charm while putting perfectly manicured nails over the back of the chair across from him in warning.

"Not everybody has the _luxury_ of early hours I'm afraid, nor anybody to drop everything on."

Putting down his pen, he slinks out the chair with little fanfare and rounds the table to offer her a gentlemanly hand to take however she wishes though the eye roll at her little jab and the dramatics they came with is just barely suppressed.

"Why Miss Nomura, what a pleasure it is to see you as always. It has been far too long, hasn't it?"

Without missing a beat, she takes it gently then positively yanks him closer into a warm embrace for only to whisper pure venom into his ear with the sweetest of smiles.

"If you even try to kiss my hand I swear I will make the cutlery in your ribcage look like a freak accident."

"You are as _charming_ as ever I see, my dear," he answers a mixture of amused and with the calm of someone who is distinctly unsurprised by the threat. Calmly, he slips out of her grip to return to his seat. For a moment it looks as though she is about to shoot back with a (Probably) snide comment but instead chooses to sit opposite and put on a pleasant appearance for the crowds around them.

"By the way one of my co-workers hopes the trip saw you well and as do I. Must be quite the luxury not having to wander about while hiding under fifteen layers now? Not to mention you must be sick of the sight of snow after spending so very many months abroad..."

The look of sheer disgust is not even attempted to be hidden.

"You would think they would have created something reasonably fashionable _and_ warm by now but no, Michelin Man or bust I think the saying is? The highlights barely outweighed the damn awfulness of it all," she grouses, moving the handbag to her lap to rest an elbow on it just in case somebody with sticky fingers might make a pass for it just to regret their target choice.

"It will be rather nice to enjoy sunlight again mind, that, good tea and not having to worry about children playing with things they shouldn't. I never could figure out how _you_ manage to do that on a day to day, always sounded horrific."

"Now now they are quite fine when you get used to them, certain petulant ones not withstanding of course. Years of practice really does help with the handling honestly; plus a subject I can't help but love makes even the most weary days all the more enjoyable. Must be the same for you, surely? Being able to pick out the exhibition's now must be quite the thrill, yapping and ignorance aside."

"Oh _indeed_! There's been a shipment that has been slowly staggering in presently that might be to even your interests. Perhaps you should arrange a visit sometime when the hours are quieter and have a look in person, maybe even offer an opinion or two on them if you cared to indulge me?"

"Well you certainly have garnered intrigue, my dear. Any hints or do you want to keep me in suspense that bit longer?"

"Just a bit, it _is_ supposed to be a virtue after all! Though while we're on the subject..." A hand reaches across the table and with a surprising act of gentleness from the changeling cups the side of his face and lets nails rumple the growing scruff of a beard. He does not bat it away again, merely turns his gaze to watch whatever her fingers may do knowing better than to completely trust her intentions no matter how innocently appearing.

"Growing this back out? You'll have all the ladies swooning again, how utterly _dreadful_ for you."

He gives a knowing smirk in return, indulging this little moment with his own hand just barely touching her own with the ill temper already on display he doesn't want to tempt a reprisal.

"Alas I could only offer them pity, thou dost stone my heart."

The grins that break out between the pair look positively _devious_ and are barely held together much longer before they both burst out into uproarious laughter loud enough that some of the other customers look their way oddly or cast disapproving tuts for the disturbance. Not that either changeling cares naturally and the giggling refuse to disperse any easier with even just the sheer audacity looking at the other's face enough to set them off again. Probably a good thing her hand moved away from his face again, it might well have left a mark what with how _sharp_ those nails are.

Alas, as with all good things they must end if in this particular case petering out into barely suppressed titters, those shared eyes that know far more than the mundane world and faces still a little flushed from mirth. Would it be another time it would annoy him immensely how she manages to regain her composure faster than he manages.

"Ha. I - I don't I've been in such - hysterics in one day in years."

"Mmm it has been a while since I've seen you do. Not since our _dearest child_ met his first semi I think it was at the top of my head."

"Deeja still has that particular footage I believe, it still amazes me that Otto got away wit -"

At the sharp cough to his left, Strickler pauses mid-sentence and glances to the poor server looking a tad uncomfortable about where to look. At his rueful wave, she places the tray down between them and takes a few additional sachets of sugar from an apron pocket to place in front of him which gets an appreciative nod in return.

"Thank you kindly. Please, there is no need to worry about our silly little conversation, it is quite all right. Just a distant child relative of hers," he pauses to level a look at Nomura whose expression swiftly turns to an innocent what? before continuing.

"Couldn't help but behold in wonder at the size of the beasts, marvellously daunting to one so small." There is a sense of (False) fondness in his tone.

The real truth of the conversation however is one best only heard by the ear of changelings in a good mood, and possibly accompanied by a few drinks already downed and more to come.

Still, it seems enough to deter their waitress from commenting, they give a customer service smile, a quiet apology for the disturbance and then depart completely oblivious to the annoyed look Nomura levels for their fun being spoilt by the sheer audacity of politeness. It's only the tap of a spoon on the metal teapot that gets her attention back where it should be again along with the accompanying quiet, ahem?

"We _are_ sharing so I won't tolerate any complaints about my selection," Strickler comments taking the two cups and saucers carefully off the tray. He makes no mention of the huff when he pushes her half closer with an accompanying tea spoon and it is further ignored when he starts to pour his own drink just short of the edge before holding the pot just so where it may be taken without risking a hand being burned.

"I refuse to drink that fruit scented cardboard no matter how great you claim it is."

"Your taste in... other teas... is one of the handful of things I actually like about you. Shame about your insistence on poisoning it with too much sugar," Nomura snips back, taking it graciously and pouring it out to her own preference. He scoffs while adding the aforementioned additions to his own drink.

"Two is _hardly_ that dramatic."

"Peh."

Thus an almost companionable silence descends between the pair of them while they enjoy their drinks without wasting words or trading further barbs. Strickler even allows himself the chance to breathe and the chance to observe the common folk milling about, the affronting hair colour seems to have disappeared at some point which is unfortunate as he would have liked to have heard what Nomura would make of the thing. Something sufficiently scathing no doubt. In comparison, she appears positively _bored _with all the niceties and proper manner needing to be kept up for the all important facade of normalcy and he is also quite sure if not for the tea, she likely would be fidgeting right now for far different reasons than he may do with a pen. Some of their Order took to this whole routine like a duck to water, his fellow cohort is certainly not one of those but it is more of a case her talents are best elsewhere than anything particularly worrisome.

Still as long as she manages to keep her mouth shut he will gleefully allow her to stew in these fragile times for he cares rather more to enjoy the peace, his drink and let his guard waver a tiny bit.

Just this once.

...

"Fabergé."

Immediately he stops mid sip, eyes widening to stare over the rim at her incredulous much to the delighted smirk that peers back over the clasped hands her chin rests on. The cup is lowered just enough to speak but not enough to reveal the frown now sitting upon his lips.

"Now how pray tell did you manage to pull _that_ little one off?"

He could swear by the fact fangs are in that ever-growing grin of hers.

"Don't you grumble at me, Strickler, your face isn't at all suited for it," she teases then makes him wait for her to savour more tea before he can have an answer.

"Nor should you need to ask, as you well know I can be _highly_ persuasive when I wish to be with the clientele. I just had to turn up the charm and suddenly there was nothing too outlandish to help me out with~ Hell, even handed out his number which was ever so sweet of him I'm sure you'd agree."

He snorts in response, quickly gathering his thoughts and composure together with them while the cup is gently placed down with a clink. Leaning back in the chair he watches her carefully _just in case_ she decides to throw another curveball in there for him to savour though it seems she won't on this occasion thankfully.

"And yet you call _me_ the little heart breaker, Miss Nomura."

"We-ell rumour has it I can be perhaps a little more literal with that. Shame you never took me up on finding out it, might have even been enjoyable for one of us." The eye roll is ever so dramatic wrapped in an expression of a cat that has snatched all the cream and more.

"For fair reason, I am very sure you agree," he replies gently.

"Though I must inform while we're on the subject, I'm afraid your ex is in the area again. I would so hate you to run into him... unexpectedly while you're out and about."

The tension in her shoulders is immediate, almost statuesque, and eyes simmer with a faint glow though to her credit the death glare aimed at the cup prevents it being all that obvious to anyone nearby even if the clenched fists might rouse their notice. Still so very angry it would seem but ah, far be it for him to stir the pot further but _friendly concern_ should be acceptable.

"Your tea will get only colder if you keep scowling at it like that."

The glower rises sharply to meet his unassuming look to which he simply mouths the word _breathe_. Picking up his notepad he tears out a scrap whilst idly listening to her taking in one, then two deep breaths while trying to rid the worst of the tension from her system. Oh she very much wants to damage something, perhaps even crack the table from how now her nail tips already blemish the surface though the restraint manages to hold and he certainly appreciates not having to pay for repairs on her behalf. Again.

"The universe _clearly_ wanted to lay in wait with disappointment for me, I don't know why I expected otherwise," she mutters darkly, picking up the cup again letting the liquid slosh gently between her hands without taking another sip.

"And even **he** is not worth wasting decent tea for. Ugh."

With a simple, _of course we're much better than that_, the scrap is slid over to her side complete with a neatly written phone number and left at stop by her saucer. He barely gives her a moment to consider what it is before throwing in another complete topic change.

"On a far lighter note, here. It's my new number so do try not to lose it. If you need to talk about the day to day at all, please feel free though text is better by the virtue of frequent bad timing during class or worse. While you're at it, perhaps could go about setting up a time when I could see this new exhibit of yours?"

She says nothing, instead stares at him with an expression that perfectly reads, _really? Now?_

His only response is to motion to the diary beside him with an ever so courteous smile then resumes finishing his drink. He has already picked out a time slot especially for her regarding other duties, and she knows it would take an **extremely** valid excuse to dissuade him when his mind is set under normal circumstances. Now however? He would need to be in a box first to change that and funnily enough there appears to be no room in the schedule for it. It doesn't stop her stealthily flipping him off while pocketing the note for later.

_Oh, but it is ever so nice those rare moments when work and play are not all so different from one another. May more of them come at once!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm putting this note here: The author is a Brit and I apologise ahead of time of the mockery I make trying to grasp the American educational system. Also I've been transcribing a loooot of 1930s news clippings of late and I suspect they may have been a bad influence.
> 
> Otherwise, whoo first chapter! Hope you enjoyed it. Writing Nomura and Strickler's little tea session was an utter delight. The wine experiment is something I did at school so I couldn't resist slipping a mention in, it's real!


	2. Run Rabbit Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days you wake up and know it is just going to be a terrible week. At least in your apartment you can be a mess and nobody is the wiser, right?
> 
> Please note: This chapter has been updated to contain two additional content warnings that are now part of the tags. They are "Implied self-harm" and "Dubious coping mechanisms".

There is something to be said about the emotion that can only be defined by such an innocently conjured word as **fear**. It is a concept that all life shares, dubbed anything from a survival instinct in the form of fight or flight to something to be conquered if you believe the silly words of humans and their innate desire to master all things that move and not. The subject is ever such a fascination to many on both sides of the veil in the pursuit of how it works, functions and can be properly utilised as part of a wider toolset and one that he too will confess as an interest to him also if prodded _just so_ for a proper answer. A being without the ability to feel fear is truly one of the most nebulous of concepts proven to exist, they have the air of a fae touched thing, after all, after all even the mightiest cannot hide from the one thing they truly dread lurking within the deepest depths of their internal will. 

Unfortunately, philosophy aside, fear is also a rather distinct reminder that you are, in fact, still breathing.

Stricklander gulps a ragged lungful of air down, another, then a third into his poor despairing throat whilst abusing this momentary respite and trying hard to ignore the overwhelming taint of ailing smoke. The ceaseless demand for more oxygen never seems to feel quenched as he struggles for enough breath, hell his chest alone feels like it's _suffocating_ under a fresh mottling of bruises. Because of constant hammering in his ears rendering them near useless as well, he is forced to peer around the bark and rely on sight alone putting his already frayed nerves further on edge. If that is possible.

All around are trees crowded in closely, twisted almost claustrophobically tight with their branches and stagnant air making the ground the only safe passage he can pursue in his attempt to flee, each thick with ancient gnarls and roots ever eager to snare a misplaced foot of the trespasser that has been running through their endless walls for what feels like hours. They offer no sanctuary to hide, not for a _half-breed_ at any rate, only the assurance of a painful end for any misjudgement. A particularly dark notion lingering at the back of his mind offers perhaps even the very limbs they carry would rat out his location if they could with how utterly wretched this day is going thus far. He cannot help a silent nod of agreement in return.

_Never should have -_

A painfully familiar roar forces golden eyes to break out of their temporary lull and into full alarm, swiftly stopping the errant thought dead (Ha!) in its tracks. He honestly did not expect the brute to catch up quite this quickly and it is all he can do to bite back the pained hiss while lurching back into an unsteady walk while trying to keep himself down low. A minor blessing perhaps is his colouration allows him to somewhat blend leaving the biggest risk of being in the form the soft clink of knives and potential horn snag on the scenery, at least for as long as he can keep pressing the worst of the pain down.

One foot in front of the other, he thinks bitterly. It is only a limp, insignificant compared to what he has suffered over the centuries and it will _be_ absolutely nothing to what will happen if the troll catches him for his recent transgressions. However and despite the obvious urgency, the limb would much rather be dragged onwards over helping preserve its owner thanks very much. Ugh typical! Just have to keep moving.

...

_Move_, damn you.

Regrettably the changeling barely makes it a few more metres when a second bellow penetrates his senses. This one was much closer, scarily so, and far too much so for comfort being but the humble rabbit of this little chase. Clenching teeth, he wraps one arm tight around the base of his ribcage to help support the still stuttering breathing though it is hard to miss the strange stickiness forming against it, nor of the feeling of damaged stone flesh. His expression flickers distractedly between the seeming never-ending he staggers onward through and looking rather oddly at his side.

_Wait, damp? No, no that's not right..._

"Impure, you dare try and flee?!"

Immediately Stricklander scrambles as best as he is able to the nearest trunk, freezing with back pressed so closely against the bark he can feel the texture through the cloak. He gives a stern nonverbal demand that his ears to at least _try_ to work with him here, at minimum do more than his infernal lungs seem to be managing. Finally they comply but only as the ground starts to quakes with each footstep of his pursuer, the same ones that only pause for a distinct accompaniment of the crack and tearing of wood from entire _trees_ being swept aside for the sheer audacity of hiding the fabled prize away. Create enough noise and you flush out the prey by making their own terror betray their position. Rather infuriating when these glimmers of the father bother showing up in the son, it's never at the best time, is it?

Out of spite more than pride or sense he holds his ground but he cannot help a flinch when a tree clatters into its brethren within a hair's breadth of his location nor the quietly muttered curse that slips out under still hitching breath.

A rather disturbing silence descends quickly when the last is felled, for now at least, one only broken temporarily by the chafing sound of a single sword drawn from its sheath for the owner to admire. As much as the prey _tries_ to watch only the lingering dark shape, one that is rather blatant in listening for any sign of his presence while scenting the burnt air with a cruel smile, his gaze cannot help but drift to that holding arm as though he expects a _something_ to be there (A weight perhaps?) instead of an injury. It takes the heavy sounds of the other troll moving to yank his attention back where it should be.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out what you did?" a playful tone _sings_. Despite having his back to him at present, there is little doubt about the sheer murderous joy that will be residing upon Bular's face. 

It almost makes him want to gag; bastard has wanted an excuse to go after him for years.

No, no. Inhale, exhale, consider, _plan_. There is still time to be worked with! Pressure just means thinking faster on your feet than you'd like... He's had so much worse, by the same blasted creature no less, and more cracked ribs on that particular occasion to boot. He needs to be better than this. Risking one last glance over his shoulder to ensure the fabled child is looking elsewhere, the changeling ducks low and risks an attempt for a newer hiding spot inwardly cursing not being able to climb in this state both in terms of upwards and of easily over all these damn roots that seem to wrap thicker which each and every step he takes.

The scraping sound of sharpening metal on thick stone cuts through even the heartbeat plaguing his hearing and makes the internal panic surge in response that outright refuses to be quelled again despite he is now squirreling away under new cover. Constant whispers nip at the edges of his mind calling traitor, of loss of something important, the failure to run while he still had the chance. Within a blink a potential weapon is suddenly in his hand though he could have sworn there were two, somehow. Vague muddied thoughts supply him with the fact one was thrown to try and throw "the Vicious" off the scent long before the first tree was felled yet he doesn't recall ever drawing either let alone used. The remaining one is clutched tight as he watches on through narrowed eyes with the strangest feeling of something is still burning beyond the arena of forest yet he _also_ knows there is nothing there. Oddly.

"A mere fleshbag whelp, is that what it takes to bring the haughtiest of your little pride of misfits to his knees? Pathetic does not even begin to describe it."

That comment makes him pause. This chase has nothing to do with a _child_ what is that idiot blathering on about? The changeling hisses to himself. He wanted to gut a messenger! The temporary distraction is not enough to stop rational thoughts starting to be smothered under his fear of being caught nor the creak of his hand tightening around the knife feeling obnoxiously loud. The footsteps seem to have noticed and graciously follow its lead.

"Oh, how my father would be _ashamed_ if he knew."

Too close! He is far too close! Eyes shut tight knowing he can't flee now. The increasing chants in his head grow ever more numerous and loud, shouting to try and escape anyway! Just throw a prayer to the Pale Lady for mercy! One that will never be answered another reminds, much like his dwindling hopes for surviving. It is sickening how he feels little more than a fearful whelp of old instead of his true age.

Morbidly it does not surprise at all when dark stone reaches from behind his hiding place, wrapping forcibly around his throat in a grip that barely allows a squawked wheeze to break from his lips and is completely ignorant of the cowl blades. The changeling is plucked from the ground then casually drawn to look at his far larger captor directly in the eyes and behold his own personal reaper. Survival instincts make claws pitifully scratch at the fingers holding him tight while the knife waves uselessly at air much to the grand amusement of the watching blistering red. Pleading words to be spared and excuses choke. The foul grin widens ever more framed devilishly framed by still unbroken horns.

"End of the road this time, Stricklander."

The hand crushes tighter still.

Stone begins to crack and splinter.

Everything descends into darkness.

As his consciousness finally slips away a voice barely above a whisper lingers gently in his gradually failing mind.

_Compromise is made out of peace  
But history's made out of violence  
After the war of the words has ceased  
All that's left is the deafenin' **silence**_

~

Golden eyes snap open to find him surrounded by a grand nothingness even he cannot see through. His mind immediately seizes upon the worst possibility, turning breathing into frantic gulps compounded by the claustrophobic feeling of being utterly trapped in this new beyond. Hands blindly scramble to feel his surroundings desperate for something, _anything_, real. When fingers only find oddly squishy softness however, he blinks owlishly in pure confusion while his brain tries to sluggishly comprehend what exactly is going on and why everything sounds so strangely muffled? Thinking nothing else for it and buoyed by the fact so far nothing has tried to attack, there is a meagre attempt to take a deep breath, hold for three seconds, exhale, then he tries to lift his head.

Pillows innocently greet Strickler though it was clear at some point a few had been flung about wildly in panic and by some minor miracle none are torn by nail, claw nor knife. He looks left, then right still nervously alert if a little on the baffled side before his mind lethargically offers that this is his bed, in his apartment and somewhere that (Mostly) offers safety from the real-world roiling outside. No Gumm-Gumm here, in fact no way he would be on the same continent again yet, you damn well know this get a hold of yourself!

Gritting teeth together he hauls himself up onto his knees despite the protests stemming from the ghosts of injuries long since passed and while trying not to grimace at the taste of blood still persisting in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue at some point in the night apparently. The remaining duvet slips away from tensed shoulders and pools gingerly around his body making him shiver a little from the sudden loss of precious warmth. Wrapping his arms about himself he tries to get his inhalation of air back down from an alarmed high and for the adrenaline response to ebb. In, a tick, and out again. Gradually eyes return to their (Un)natural green feeling the imminent threat of danger subsiding.

How many years had it been since those fabled days of fleeing? Centuries now, perhaps? And yet even now his long history continues to doggedly pursue into his blasted dreams, dangling an execution that could have so nearly happened over and over again but ah, he was far better than to fall for it. He survived, wounds healed, the world moved ever onwards as it should and none the wiser.

_Whenever that leash snaps, it's funny how quickly Bular becomes a wraith insistent on stalking my very sleep_

Deciding to keep the world at bay that little bit longer, the changeling grants himself the permission of a few minutes before finally glancing over to check what ungodly hour he has found himself in. He cannot help the snort of disgust at seeing it is barely past four in the morning, on a now Monday this happens as well, oh what a grand week this sets out to be! Thinking on it a little, that gives him perhaps, what, a couple of hours at most to try and wrestle his mental state back on track and make himself look at least somewhat presentable. Truly? It will be only stubbornness and sheer caffeine that will be getting him through this one and a calmer day if that is possible. When the clock gingerly ticks over to a five, there is a very grudgingly attempt to leave the comfort of bed that unfortunately succeeds and thus he stalks off towards the bathroom while trying to ensure his thoughts are kept focused on his destination, breathing steady.

_Possible ambush, be aware! There! There! _

_Don't you see the shadows? They crowd o so much, be alert!_

He probably spends more time in the shower than he ought to, given the circumstances, but with the water a touch too hot for flesh and the soothing patter of water hitting the basin it all helps drown out the echoes of _footsteps_ that still linger at the very edges of his hearing. He tries instead to absorb the feeling of a cascade washing the remnants of the phantom aches lingering about his throat and side, angry muscles that crack when forced to stretch and learn to enjoy the warmth with the rest of this softer body. The steamed-up mirror is in turn ignored when he slouches by afterwards, after all energy is too much a premium to waste with such an empty stomach. His only desire at present is coffee and preferably _without_ a side of spying how awful he must appear to the outside world all whilst gamely wrapped in a towel and another slung over his shoulders in spare.

Subconsciously he does glance at all corners and dark areas while passing through to the kitchen, just in case. It does not make any of the whispers lessen.

It has now past 5am according to the kitchenettes clock meaning the little countdown for departure is ticking ever closer, thus it is of great shame it cannot also make the so-called elixir of life in the form of a humble morning coffee brew any damn faster. It hardly takes any time at all for impatience to start getting the better of him from how he raps his shortened nails on the counter, glaring at the beverage to yield to his will and darken enough to be potent enough to kill if still somewhat drinkable. At the very least he can savour the strengthening aroma pushing out the feel of smoke and earth lingering about his senses even with the shower sweeping the worst away. In the end, the drink barely manages the colour _murky_ before the mug is scooped up, a mouthful taken dutifully and savoured with a very thankful mmm. The feeling of just a little bit more of that wrought tension clinging to his back in particular eases. Even still, senses remain ever wary.

_The stillness is a lie! The screams won't fade! _

_They all still burn! The roar echoes endlessly!_

Accompanied now the forever delightful wakening scent of roast, he quickly pads through his living space (Thoughts cannot linger if you do not give them the chance, he'd reckon) for his room once more, still notably towel wrapped by all accounts walking over flooring that feels weird - _safe_ \- in comparison to recent memories. Within a single stride Strickler slips into his true skin with barely a flourish other than his drink being jostled from the sudden change in height though he cants it, just so, to avoid any loss. His mood even begins to swell as his mind turns notably quieter for the first time that morning! That is, until his wings uselessly collide with either side of the doorframe with a soft whumph jostling his coffee again, far less elegantly this time, and promptly stopping him right there and then. It startles him back into the present though even then it still takes him a moment or two to realise exactly _why_ he stopped going forwards.

"..."

Inwardly cursing his exhausted mental state, he takes a step back to process what is necessary before setting a rather rudimentary plan into action. First, the wing on the side without a free hand is folded again, wrangled close under an elbow then "posted" ahead of the rest of him with mutterings of discomfort to accompany the feat. With that done, he quickly pins the remaining wing downwards with his arm and ducks his head low to lessen the risk of head or horns clipping the upper part of the doorframe as well. With this done, he is finally able to pass freely and both wings lightly flare when allowed to escape their confines before settling back into their resting position behind him.

_Blasted human standardised heights, they just had to make changelings suffer as much as the taller of their breed instead of giving that little bit more headroom, ugh_

The sudden thought of_ Bular_ getting stuck in a similar sized doorway mind brings the barest hint of a smile.

The wings are moved once more if under their own steam this time to allow himself the space to sit on the edge of the bed, then they gather up by the tips to wait politely by his thighs for the next order complemented by some minor grumbling. It would probably strike as a silly routine to others, waiting for specific (Safe, that word again) periods to allow your wings to stretch out in full spread and test the muscles with the most leisurely flap, one by one of course, to avoid them being cramped up until flight and risk failure but then, those bastards don't have to constantly hide a part of their very selves now do they? It is a little surprise trump card, one that should be kept ever so close despite the obvious downside being that this forces you to snatch temporary freedom away from prying eyes of human and comrade alike. From the complaints coming from each currently, it is clear he has perhaps left them compacted a tad on the longer side than he should have done. His brow creases in annoyance at yet another thing to add to the seemingly endlessly growing to do list.

The mug is half drained by the time the exercises are dutifully completed and while he will admit the drink is far _weaker_ than he would prefer, you have to make do in these trying circumstances. Carefully switching hands, he places it on the side table which also happens to hold a small hung crystal that looks disturbingly charred and slowly crumbling to ash to which he pays no mind. He is about to withdraw his hand again when it suddenly seems to occur to him he needs something else from that direction and begins to pat under the nearest pillow in search, one that thankfully had enough weight to stay put during the night.

"Confound it, just need to- Ah, there."

Just by the claw tip one of his trademark feather knives is emerges until he can reach enough to grasp it properly, a sobering reminder perhaps that humans are not the only ones with a preference to have a weapon _just in case_ around their beside. It is then held up to the light, twisted this way and that to check it's reflective shine and in turn sharpness holds strong before it is flicked gently between the fingers of his right as if to act as a reminder of its weight. The sight is wrapped in the dubious feel of this being little more than a bored trick of the morning to allay fidgeting from how it goes back and forth, once, twice then thrice and with that it seems he is satisfied and lets it be held absently between thumb and finger ready.

The knife is drawn even closer by free fingertips that gently trail over his neck and cautiously round his throat while remaining ever mindful of nicking, vaguely feeling the legacy of long worn then smoothed away imprints and bruises liberally applied again and again by tantrums and spite. Stone may crack, turtlenecks doth hide and perfected lies shroud everything in innocence preserved on by cleverness or luck. How strange it must seem to the youth that brutal centuries of clinging to this side of the veil makes you so strangely sentimental for the reminders that you are just so? _Battle scars_, he is reminded, that's what the human survivors of wars and not seem to call them these days. It's a nice concept.

"Oh, how I pity the violence," Strickler murmurs.

Carefully the opposite wing is lowered towards the floor with another small grunt of soreness, that very same hand that wields casually traces along the main bone for a very particular spot entirely by touch while he chooses to simply hum a tune long lost to man of old in wait. As the second line of the ditty draws to a close, the knife's position is adjusted to be held in more controllable digits and he leans back just a touch to watch as his own hand places the blade between one of many, oh so many, notches carved into his living stone deep enough to permanently scar. There will be no additions to the morbid tally, no not today, but after a nightmare like that just the _feel_ of something pressing down into one of the existing marks of the wing is enough to make him hiss softly in instant relief. Something grounding, controllable and such a terrible thing to let himself be weak without the overhanging need to scramble into hiding it.

For a brief time this is all that will be, at least until the coffee begins to chill.

Eventually as with all things the comforting silence he surrounded himself with so tight begins to yield though they have the decency to wait until the last of his mug is drained and blade once more hidden at least. This time they come bearing the offer of faint sounds from a baby crying and with them memories that are much more subtle when they start to crawl into his lap and beg of his attentions and very much unlike the far more demanding whispers. First they bring the softness of his own voice talking to a little face that is still somehow perfectly imprinted upon his mind. The scent of youth, of fear and fresh tears. The feeling of fabric cradled near his chest. Sparkling **green** staring up at him with tiny hands attempting to grasp at the strange man holding them ever so close while recovering their breath. His own desire to soothe and protect such a familiar that is not quite and yet, somehow, it still managed to him smile.

Closing his eyes with the still cooling mug clasped between both hands in his lap, Strickler quietly recites the words of old he recalls whispering to the whelp many a century ago:

_Dear sweet child, hold thy voice_

_Do not force me to choose_

_Between my life and thine_

_Let me be your chance_

_That I may never find_

Sometimes, in quieter moments, he wonders what happened after he had spirited them to the random doorstep far from the reaches of Bular's teeth. Did they keep him? Send the poor boy away? Perhaps even mistake him for a fae child? _That_ would have been rather unfortunate irony. It was a split second choice honestly, a potentially fatal one you could add, but they reminded him _so much_ that he could not bear the concept of leaving them to be devoured with the rest of his kin as his former home was ransacked for fresh meat. By the mercy of fate, or perhaps even Her wishes, he escaped with both their hides intact and slipped away into the shadows without the troll realising what had happened. Too busy razing, slaughtering and gloating over the living he did not see fit to devour, he suspects.

Perhaps that is why it is part of the terrifying amalgamation of memories and what if scenarios that plague his life so often as vivid nightmares. There was no forest so why not pluck one from when he was beaten as a messenger with distasteful news and he was forced to hide like a common rat? Pluck the smoke of so many occasions that he watched entire lives burn. Pale Lady knows just from the choice of injuries alone there are a few catalogues worth of incidents to peruse with varying degrees of venom. Those vying for his post do not realise how lucky indeed they are, the expression on his face is as wry as the thought.

"Well now, I suppose if the day is destined to be tinged for grand levels of nostalgic, why not go one more for the road?"

The motion to stand is riddled with great reluctance and invading stiffness, his body having decided just one coffee is not enough and it would quite like to return to this bed thank you very much sir. Alas, as much as he would just _adore_ the notion of compliance and spend the rest of the day half dead to the world, it is not to be and thus he pushes up and away despite the further angered cracks and groans coming from within his stone. As a compromise there is a promise given of another coffee when he pops the mug next to the kettle while en route, making sure to top it up and set it boiling, before heading straight for the largest mirror in the apartment for something by his own admittance he has neglected for a while under the piss poor excuse of being too otherwise engaged to "check in".

_Oh just another little thing to feel guilty about and plague my dreams_

If you asked the Changeling to be truthful and he chose in turn to indulge the curiosity, he would readily admit he finds the whole spitting thing leans more onto the disgusting side of things he is capable of. Maybe it's the whole modern-day world corrupting his point of view but there is no graceful way to make hooking it on a surface for a magical viewing platform to sound _remotely_ reasonable, really. Grasping those few moments while the reflection shifts to that of the nursery, Strickler slips back into flesh ignoring the dramatic irony of still being towel wrapped, another reason perhaps, it is a good thing it is a one way only... mirror. Still, there can be no mistaking the open tenderness on the observer's face as the original Waltolomew emerges upon the pane, presently tucked and fast asleep. A caretaking goblin scuttles down the chain to double check the blanket covers his tiny body enough to prevent a chill with the gentleness seldom seen in their kind.

"Good morn me wee bairn."

It is such a strange thing; the stolen babe may never hear or see his native homeland and yet there is still a unusual comfort in speaking to the one whose face you wear and act as a living masquerade in their stead. A time immortal held where their other half can marvel at their blissful innocence and contentment at leisure, spared the misery and long suffering of their alternate kindred yet _loved_ all the same. He places knuckles near their cheek in as close a comforting gesture he can accomplish on this side, watching the little child breathe gently in and out with barely a movement from their chubby little arms. Alas, even this must end and the connection begins to slowly dissolve back into this far crueller reality.

"Mar sin leat, will bring a tale o two next time."

In a day riddled oh so with stolen seconds, he gives himself a few more to gingerly put his forehead against the cool hardness of the mirror while refusing to look at himself proper, just to be still until the kettle clicks with steam and demands he come to its call.

Despite the clock being a constant and incessant ticking reminder from his bedside of how long he has left to scurry about, the changeling point blank refuses to do anything but savour coffee number two with as much spitefulness as he can possibly muster while on the epic quest to look more than a "drowned cat that swept a chimney clean" or however _that_ particular saying goes. By the time it is finally drunk he in turn strikes as exhausted if still vaguely presentable for the outside world at last, left with just a few minutes spare to make the bed look less like a warzone ripped through it and be a gift to his ailing self when he returns tonight. Absently while cleaning he wonders how much of the scraped together hours were lost purely from just disassociating from existing for a while without even realising? Must have been a few even ignoring the shower.

Grabbing the phone from beside the clock with a irritated sigh and the once more empty mug with the other, Strickler quickly scrolls through the most recent deluge of messages while wandering towards the sink. Some he did (Unfortunately) expect given the report that came through late which is another mess he will have to deal with sooner than later, a few group chat updates from Nomura as well hmm, then he spots one in particular that makes him stop in his tracks. The text is stared at _hard_ as though the words might magically change into something else to alleviate his continued Monday morning suffering and have just a little, just one small thing go well. The world however remains purposefully indifferent to the high-school teacher's plight and refuses to comply. It takes a lot of restraint to prevent him throwing it at a wall.

"Huff, such a dreich day indeed."

~~~

Thinking about it really, given how the day has been thus far and all, something else happening _should_ have been expected, nay, welcomed with a warm handshake and greeting of a fair morning with the hope of warding off any mayhem that may come in with it. Lack of sleep has a terrible amount to answer for as does the concept of 6:20am and that particular time having to exist for keeping up the appearance of a dedicated educator at Arcadia Oaks High. Perhaps the small mercy of circumstance is that the offending event had the decency at least to wait until he walked into his office and had firmly locked the door.

At first nothing appears particularly untoward. There is a small paperback is sitting on his desk, a new addition he notes, sitting next to the last mug he used (Cleaned!) whichever day it was and a pen that must have fallen out of the stand since he was in here the day before. With little care for it Strickler tosses his phone onto the surface in as much an excuse to ignore the dreaded message that bit longer as anything, then goes about to open up the blinds. The early morning light has still yet to get going in full force just yet, too busy dragging it's feet like one of the teenagers that attend the place. This time of year must be outright depressing for the sun loving humans. Satisfied all is now well and the basics covered, he takes the key pen from his inside jacket pocket, ensuring to give it a quick twirl between his fingers before inserting it into the lock. While awaiting, he scoops up the surprise book to give it a proper once over as something to do as the secret entrance begins to churn into life with a rather curious hum.

"_Tuesdays with Morrie_? Sounds an odd choice to be coming from you, Xavier. Ah and the utterly useless commentary on the back instead of actually telling you what it is on top of it all! Why am I not surprised. Suppose I best look it up later and see what it is he actually left for me."

It is only when he happens to glance up to the now opened room that there is the rather startling realisation of not only is there a scattering of random paperwork he'd needed to keep away from human eyes and (far worse) precious books are too, some of these are bundled together in the middle of the floor complete with a peacefully sleeping and rather oddly solitary goblin coagulated in the middle of it. Words cannot quite convey properly enough the sheer bafflement, horror, disgust and just general what the fuck did I just walk into currently residing on the changeling leader's face.

"Uhh."

His brain rather understandably has similar thoughts on processing the matter. It takes a small while longer to process the offending sight before him and just a little less than that for his eyes to start glowing in annoyance. Closing them, the changeling silently counts to ten while biting back the growl burning in his throat before opening them again with a look of fixed if tired seriousness and begins to survey the damage that is not in direct contact with the napping body. While they would undoubtedly _try_ and help with cleaning up the mess if he happened to ask, he would prefer to not to have mucus all over the valuables and _certainly_ not just because of the risk the more magically inclined artefacts taking exception to being manhandled and explode. Given the day thus far, the possibility is sadly right there humming at the edges.

The jacket is shrugged off and chucked over the back of the main office chair, the new paperback more gently placed with it and sleeves are rolled up tight before he begins to get stuck into the newly festered problem. Being ever so mindful of the goblin (And of stepping on any of the so called bed), he elects prowl the space cautiously first to check the most important/magical items and second to survey any other potential and existing damages.

The laptop he keeps here primarily for contact with the Order is mercifully intact though it looks like it was trodden on multiple times at some point with the possibility of some gnawing on one of the corners by the looks of it, yet again, though the charger still exists so at least that was not eaten during their little soirée by some minor miracle. The Ga-Huel too remains closed and still resting upon it's pedestal, there is a bit of a tickle in the air about it but nothing too unusual for that particular item and with it not desiring for his attention he chooses to leave it be for now.

Other collections kept on the racking however has not been quite so fortunate much to his chagrin, flung, piled up and chewed as they are and for a harrowing moment the terrifying thought suddenly occurs that the goblin _might_ have gotten into the Grave Sand container he keeps squirreled away. It takes him a while to find where it is and by all the good graces despite being utterly buried under thick tomes tossed from their shelf it has remained closed much to his grand relief. O_ne_ less thing to worry over at least though clean up is not how he intended to spend his time today, not when he was kinda hoping to get a pop quiz rigged up ready for tomorrow's students after his planned time went so flagrantly out the window.

He is in the middle of putting the last of a series of rather ancient scrolls back into their proper place when the floor lump begins to finally stir. He chooses to ignore the disgusting squelching as limbs well stretched ooze from their confines, instead preferring to finish his work and remain rather thankful that his sensitive sense of smell long gave up on acknowledging the stench of a goblin nest up close. Only upon hearing a Cha! does he glance their way, neatly folding his hands behind his back and eyeing the creature with open disdain. They merely cock their head to one side and obediently await for his word.

"_How did you_\- No, never mind I don't want to know," he sighs, pausing just long enough to collect his thoughts.

"Should I be grateful that you at least didn't destroy anything of remote value?"

Importance, now there is a _strange_ concept to a goblin. Instruction is what they go by to the letter seemingly incapable of inferring information from what they can figure out for themselves. It makes the fact certain items surviving remarkably unscathed an open surprise to be frank. Still, they have the decency at least to point to the Ga-Huel as an example and cross their arms in a gesture of absolutely not touching that thing, backed by some soft grumbling which even through his long years of dealing with their language he can just barely make out little more than a couple of words. Before the changeling gets chance to comment any further, it then seems to have suddenly have something occur as they point towards the main office.

"Waka chu wa haka to cha."

"Yes yes, a colleague was supposed to drop in with something. I was expecting them," voice ever dismissive.

They do not relent however, pointing to the office again before making a rather blatant key opening gesture with their hands then spreads their arms wide about the room they are both standing in all the while chattering away. That particular bit of information gives Stricklander pause, narrowing his eyes to look at the little cretin more closely than he had before.

"What, pray tell, are you getting at?"

"Chu to chaaa haka cha."

Had one of his fabled pens been in his hand at that very moment, it could well have been snapped in two from the way his hands clench into fists and sheer _anger_ simmers behind his eyes. The goblin appears rather non-plussed, watching with mild curiousity while he takes a deep breath and squashes the potential outburst back down and well out of the way to be dealt with properly later. If it was at all inclined to think as much, the quickly restrained display into cool indifference would be rather impressive but they are more content that no knives suddenly hurtled their direction if anything crosses their mind at all.

"Clean up your own mess and I will deal with the rest, you should be able to get back to the nest before the school day starts if you get on with it," he says coolly motioning to the specific "nest" polluting the damn floor.

"You are dismissed."

The honorary salute with added Waka! is barely acknowledged, instead he decides to get back on with his own cleaning duties while hoping for no further surprises he may have missed on his initial perusal. All the while, this new piece of information turns and twists in his gut. Hands are kept busy replacing binders on the lowermost shelf while his mind whirrs; _somebody_ must have come into his office (His!) after the emergency conference call yesterday evening as there was certainly not a goblin in attendance then. None of the Order is allowed to come here without his express permission be it after hours _or_ at the weekend, too much risk for a stranger to be spotted wandering about a public school and giving the wrong idea to the idiot parents. It would have to be a fellow changeling to get past the lock, there is no doubting that part, but all the goblin could give little more than a shrug in response about knowing _who_ suggesting whoever did it may have used a glamour to lessen the chance of being caught.

...

The antramonstrum had not triggered either, had it?

Placing the last folder in its place he rises enough to turn on his heel and glance at the forever ominous crystal perched just to the left of where the bookcase would be normally, his ever staunch and noble guard. If the intruder had been about ransacking the place it would have immediately launched into action and yet here it stands inactive further impressing that the intruder knew _exactly_ what they were after, whatever it was, and how to _negate_ his security measures including the unexpected addition that was shut in here. This ill feeling just digs ever deeper into his very being, everything in the past 24 hours alone just screaming this being signs of an ill omen. While hardly superstitious sort, he is inclined to acknowledge that there is **something **in the water.

Letting out a breath he did not realise he was even holding; he decides better to leave these dreaded thoughts for now and focus on the task at hand. The room must be closed up again before any of the faculty starts to arrives for the day as no doubt somebody will want his attention and bang the door if they find it locked as sod's law dictates which will not at all do. Heaving another sigh he goes about scooping up some stray papers from the floor, one of which gives him pause what with it having the rather unlucky distinction of having the entire middle of the page chewed out of it. Frowning, he bundles it up and tosses it to the Goblin for disposal who quickly relishes in the extra snack with a satisfied mumble.

"Ugh, I knew I should have taken some of these to the archives sooner."

The first stirrings of any other life forms descending on the school begins only after the bookcase finally clicks shut thankfully. Coach being the first human, as always, having finished up a lap or two around the track is presently jogging forth for his first earned coffee of the day in the staff room. It is the sounds of these sudden footsteps trickling down the hallway that jolt Strickler into unlocking the door of the office, lapsed as he was into a little bubble of worry and thought had he of everything that has occurred since he first woke up this morning.

None of which is helped either by an errant thought of _happening again_ to stir in response to the echoes, requiring it to be quickly shoved aside and told to shut it. The often beloved quiet and unoccupied hands does not seem to be doing much good for him today and while caffeine will undoubtedly not help any in the longer term, he is rather for taking the self-destruction by the bridle and seeing where it goes at this point.

Letting out a half-distracted hum, he wanders back to his desk, kneeling beside the drawer and begins to excavate the secret compartment. It is but a nagging feeling to check that the surprise visitor didn't manage to find it really, partly aided by there was no obvious sign of anything being taken in general, and despite the _want_ to just tear the box out of the confines he does manage to restrain himself to removing it with the delicacy it rightly deserves. It is to his great relief that all is accounted for when the lid is lifted with no clear evidence of tampering. A little sordid perhaps, a fingertip is allowed to run along one of the blade's edge to confirm it is as real as sight and not a conjuring while being gentle enough to not break the skin.

"O, but an eye that no longer sheds tears but those of knives still thieved of sun's light. I suppose I best be hiding you at home a while until things quieten down again, can't be having any strays sniffing around where they don't belong now can we?"

For now however the best he can do is hide it away again and plan how to sneak it out tonight when he finally leaves to avoid any obnoxious questioning or general stalling from others. Sure a goblin _could_ do it for him but they can also do a lot of things they could but probably best they shouldn't in turn such as the current example of unintentionally breaking in if today. He would feel far more comfortable with it kept well in (Hidden) sight as well, another little something that is controllable in a morning filled with unruly chaos.

Satisfied any hints of difference or unusual are suitably well hidden, the changeling takes the book from his chair and promptly slumps straight into it with the gift placed in his lap quite frankly uncaring to uphold his appearance at this precise moment in time. With a groan he runs hands down his face feeling the etchings of sleeplessness seeped into his skin and suspecting with the unexpected cleaning duty he somehow looks even worse than how he came in what with now being in wrapped in grime and dust as well. Going to need another shower as soon as he gets home again, he'd reckon. Graciously he decides to give himself another breather, a chance to just close his eyes and recite a quote that sits just on the edge of his tired tongue.

"No one can tell me how it feels to be afraid, all of the ghosts they won't lie still - They know my name. Late at night I hear them calling, but that's a place I won't be falling."

_Not today nor any other_

It is the sound of his phone vibrating to indicate a new message stirs him from the light doze that claimed him much to his annoyance. Letting out a mildly strangled noise of irritation whilst struggling to sit back properly and not sliding halfway to the floor as he was, he then lunges with one hand to snatch it to see quite what drivel he has been sent to his door this time. More than likely it would have risked being thrown again had it not been for spying yet another group chat message update from Nomura. Oh, but temptation just gets the better of him for the freedom to, if worded bluntly, bitch about human workplaces is enough degrees removed from current circumstances to be of a somewhat distracting comfort. He immediately clicks it open.

**Maiolica**: Had some drunk try and hit on me at work today, badly

**Maiolica**: I gallantly took the high road

**Maiolica**: I am however due some payback

**Maiolica**: Want in?

~~New Messages~~

**Maiolica**: Poking you again case you missed this, I need to plan here

_Oh dear_. It is with a great deal of amusement he quickly taps a response and just a hint of mirth creeping on his face as he does so. The phone is kept steady in hand, ready to reply again as it appears that she is camping her phone currently while haggling for an answer, the other arm has now loosely draped over his head.

**Strictly Dandy**: As much as I'd love to watch, I will have to settle for hearing about it afterwards things are a bit fraught

**Strictly Dandy**: Please try and stay on the right side of legal

**Maiolica**: Such a spoilsport :(

**Maiolica**: I'll get you video of the racist prick~

**Strictly Dandy**: My dear, nothing will delight me more than to see what you do to the poor sod

**Strictly Dandy**: Have fun!

Very childish perhaps, well beneath his years and station as well, but where better to blow off a little bit of harmless steam? The idea of footage feels a little like a minor apology from the universe as _nobody_ does petty revenge (Or true backstabbing, for that matter) quite like their kin can plus it will give a small something to look forward to that is not found at the bottom of some form of beverage.

Hm, another coffee _would_ sound nice about now actually, perhaps it will help give him second wi -

"Mr. Strickler! Up and ready early as always I see!"

In yet another testament to his sheer tiredness, he somehow fails to hear the man until the door is suddenly swung up with a jovial boom though it does _not_ excuse the fact it made him startle quite as much as it does.

"Are you quite all right, my friend? You look a little pale over there," the science teacher asks while peering round the door with a look of great concern upon his face. Two books are visibly clutched under his arm.

"... Oh no, don't mind me at all, Xavier! I figured I may as well set a terrible example outside the student’s eye and they're less likely to catch me for doing it, my own fault for getting too engrossed I suppose. I take you have an early class today?" Quick on his metaphorical feet as ever, he motions to the phone still in his hand before laying it down on the desk to give the other his full attention. Rather keen as well to dissuade any further commentary on exhaustion if it can at all be avoided.

"Ah now, it happens to the best of us. Trust me never get into arguments with online strangers you'll be 48 hours gone and still trying to debate the difference between what to outsiders appears utterly ridiculous. And yes, I suppose I am though less the _class_ and more I too am setting a terrible example by accidently forgetting to take some marking home for the weekend that they will be wanting back for second period for some reason," he laughs strolling oh so casually over to the desk. Walter cannot help his own amused snort.

As the other comes closer however the lingering stench of smoke fills his senses, the edges of his mind begins to fill with terrified screaming.

_Not. Now._

Clenching a fist so tightly that nails dig into the skin, it is just enough to distract and drag his thoughts to where they should be again. Plastering a slightly worn smile on his face, he crosses his arms to hide his palms while leaning back in his chair in a faux judgemental way you would between knowing friends.

"Indulging vices too I see, your jacket."

"Bah, no students would grumble at one of the adults enjoying the privilege we know they do it enough and far less discreet about it," the man dramatically rolls his eyes giving the leather garment a good pat. It is just enough to derail any chance of him noticing the crack that formed in the mask in the space of a blink thankfully.

"I _did_, however, finally bring that book I promised you though! I do apologise on my tardiness, I either kept missing you or a student was here and I was not about to interrupt. So in recompense, I brought you an extra, a bit unusual but sometimes I feel it is best to have little forays into other types of genre as much for the learning experience as anything else."

When Xavier places the pair onto the desk, a thick hardback and a much more slender paperback he notes, before continuing on to speak on about the virtues of Edwardian antiquity contained in the original suggestion he had brought. He remains rather oblivious to Strickler reaching over to pull them closer for inspection and also when the changeling instantly stills upon seeing the name of the unexpected addition. _One More Day_, an unusual enough title to be sure, but what grabs his attention more is the author - it is the very same one as the book currently still sitting in his lap.

It is then it finally occurs to him. Yesterday was Sunday, his fellow tutor could not have possibly been the one who left surprise on his desk but that in turn means that somebody else did. Which brings about the far more important question that cannot be easily sated:

_Why would a fellow changeling break into my office and the hidden one then just happen to leave a book by the very same author that would soon appear here and now the following morning? _

There is no way they could possibly know of such things unless by some horribly unnerving coincidence occurring and while poor form to ignore somebody talking to you (An apology there), he cannot help but feel distinctly unnerved and rather distracted by the blatant conundrum.

Glancing to the original Morrie book, he slips his hand under the cover and opens the first page, half hesitant, to be greeted with a message very likely created by his own pen. Two humble words are there written in perfectly elegant script:

**~ Good luck ~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof this chapter has taken a bit of doing, I couldn't really do my usual method of jumping around as the first section HAD to exist to let me progress and it's taken quite a few edit runs to get it into shape as a result. Anxiety and panic attacks are exceedingly hard to write as they're a very individual thing down to how you deal with the fallout of the things, you don't always learn healthy ways without outside help and less so when these things get to fester for years.
> 
> The two books are also real! My copy of "Tuesdays with Morrie" happens to be an American edition with the random quotes on the back, "One More Day" however is UK based and does have a description. If you cottoned on to the fact there is no way Xavier could have left the book, you are doing much better than the tired Strickler brain :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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